The Berrybender Narratives

by Larry McMurtry

  Clam turned and walked away.

  “Moody fellow . . . that’s the French, you know . . . can’t be bothered,” Lord Berrybender observed.

  Tasmin had grabbed Pomp and was chattering with him. Jim wanted to know about the ox, an animal in excellent flesh. And he wanted to get the company moving. They could all listen to Zeke Williams rattle when night came.

  Tasmin had just started filling Pomp in on the events of the last few days when Jim Snow walked up, looking impatient, practical, and stern. It irked her; why had she married such an impatient person? But there he was.

  “That ox don’t look thirsty,” Jim said.

  “He’s not—there’s a fine spring about twenty miles east,” Pomp told him. � family of travelers found it but the Arapaho wiped them out. Nine dead. Zeke hid in a snake den, or else they would have got him.”

  “I guess that means the Rappies are still around. But I doubt they’d attack us, if we stay bunched up. Seen Hugh and the Sublettes?”

  “I saw them—they went exploring,” Pomp told him. “Maybe we’ll see them in Santa Fe.”

  Tasmin was annoyed; she wanted to talk. If there was one truth that irked her more than any other it was that men had so little use for women’s talk. Even Pomp often looked a little absent, a little bored, when she attempted to expound her views on this and that. Was there any man, anywhere, who really cared to talk to her?

  “/ care to talk to you—surely you’ll grant me that modest distinction,” Father Geoffrin said, as the two of them plodded beside the slow-walking ox. As a novelty they had sat the three little boys on the beast’s broad back, an experience that awed the children into complete silence, afraid to utter a sound in the presence of this great beast god, the ox.

  “My husband merely closes his ears—it’s as if they have tiny doors—when I start to talk,” she went on. “Kit listens, but then Kit is so deeply smitten with me that he hardly counts.”

  “What about your new love, Monsieur Charbonneau?” the priest asked. “Has he no taste for your enchanting babble?”

  Tasmin shrugged. Did Pomp really listen to her? Could he really be expected to, when the trek was so hard, their lives so threatened?

  “Sometimes he tolerates it—whether he actually likes it, I can’t say. It’s goddamn hard to determine what men actually like, don’t you think?”

  “And yet men are open books compared to women,” Father Geoff told her. “You know what I miss in America? Frivolity! Out here it’s all life-or-death. No time for frivolous kisses, clothes buying, books and plays, maquillage, dancing, a little light seduction—all the things that make life so pleasant. No one here will be frivolous with you—I suspect that’s your difficulty, my dear.”

  Tasmin shrugged again. The world Father Geoffrin’s words conjured up—a world where women wore rouge and powder, danced quadrilles, went to operas and plays—was so different from the world where she now found herself that in memory it hardly seemed to belong to the same life.

  Even on the steamer Rocky Mount, not a year ago, she and Vicky Kennet had made themselves up and paid a great deal of attention to their hair. But that had been another time. Only yesterday she had been weak from thirst—they had all faced the prospect of dying, not a situation in which one gave much thought to hair curlers and the like.

  “It’s the reason we get along so well, I expect, Tasmin,” the priest went on. “We both like our fun, and it needn’t be particularly serious fun. But your husband is not what I’d call a frivolous man, and neither is your new love, Pomp.”

  “Stop calling him my new love,” Tasmin insisted, glancing around to be sure no one had heard him.

  “I find all this rather odd,” she continued. “Here we are, inching across a prairie where we might be killed on any given day, and you think I ought to be more frivolous. I don’t know that this is very useful advice, if it is advice.”

  “Perhaps not—but we might return to civilization someday,” the priest reminded her. “If we do, I hope you’ll remember that I, at least, liked to listen to you talk. It’s worth something, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is—I’m not ungrateful,” Tasmin said.

  They had by then jettisoned all but one small wagon, in which her father, old Zeke Williams, and the babies rode. Sometimes Toussaint Charbonneau, still yellowish, was allowed to ride for a bit. But mostly Charbonneau walked, with Pomp at his side, carrying his gun and helping him a little if he faltered.

  “I suppose there’s no one more dutiful than Pomp,” Tasmin said, looking back at the pair. “He’s far more careful of his father than we Berrybenders are of our own.”

  “Of course, and it’s entirely admirable,” Father Geoff agreed. ‘And yet I do feel that dutiful men are sometimes rather lacking in spirit.”

  “What nonsense! Nothing of the sort is true of Pomp,” Tasmin said, flaring up. “He has plenty of spirit.”

  Father Geoffrin smiled and shrugged.

  “I’m sure you’d know best about that, my dear,” he said, with a smile that indicated that he didn’t believe her for a minute.

  They strode in silence for a while.

  “In my experience women tend to favor rascals,” Geoff said. “I’ve often wondered why.”

  “You’re more than enough of a rascal yourself, if you ask me,” Tasmin said tartly. “I believe I’ve had enough of your saucy talk for now.”

  “I’m sure you’d know best about that,” the priest said, but by then Tasmin had already turned away.

  36

  . . . tears of pain and frustration . . .

  “BUT none of us are used to walking, Pomp,” Tasmin said, tears of pain and frustration staining her cheeks—minutes earlier she had done the very thing Kit Carson had warned her about: she stepped on a small poisonous cactus, whose thorns pierced her moccasin and stuck deep in her heel. Now Pomp held her foot in his hand as, probing gently with a needle, he attempted to perform for her the service she had performed for Kit. One by one he was working the greenish thorns out of her foot.

  “We’re pampered gentlewomen, not mountain men,” Tasmin reminded him. “Even the grass here is like spikes, and the sun’s so bright I can’t possibly spot every vicious cactus that lies in my path.”

  “You best learn to look out for them,” her husband advised, politely.

  “Oh, shut up, Jimmy—even the experienced Kit Carson stepped on one not long ago—why am I expected to be more expert than Kit?” Tasmin asked.

  Jim Snow walked away—any attempt at counsel would only make Tasmin angrier. Let Pomp do the doctoring—she didn’t seem to get quite so angry with Pomp.

  ’Anyway I’m not the only sufferer,” Tasmin pointed out. “Vicky’s feet are severely blistered and so are Buffum’s.”

  Pomp had almost finished extracting the thorns— her foot was not really much damaged, but her point was unarguable. Of all the Englishwomen only Mary Berrybender was used to walking—until their feet toughened, there were bound to be problems. But with the company now down to two horses, one wagon, and the ox, there was no alternative to walking.

  “It’s only about five miles to the springs,” Pomp said, hoping to cheer Tasmin up at least a bit. “We can rest for a few days, once we get there.”

  “Two or three of you could ride on the ox,” Kit Carson suggested. “It’s big enough to carry two or three of you.”

  “But we’ll soon have to eat the ox,” Vicky pointed out. “Jim Snow said so this morning—eat it just as we ate the palfreys and most of the rest of our steeds. Why get used to riding a beast we will then immediately eat?”

  Tasmin let out a yelp—Pomp, probing with the needle, went a little too deeply in pursuit of the last tiny thorn.

  “This will pass,” Pomp assured her. “Your feet will soon toughen up. Look at Zeke. His feet look pretty bad, but he ran nearly a hundred miles on them.”

  ’And I’d run another hundred, if the Rappies got after me,” Zeke Williams piped. Since his rescue he spent mos
t of his time staring at the womenfolk with his intense blue eyes. Cook felt strongly that the old fellow required careful handling if lustful assaults were not to occur.

  “I can’t be much cheered by the thought that my feet might soon look like Mr. Williams’s,” Tasmin allowed. Then she yelped again, but for the last time: Pomp had captured the final thorn. He rubbed her foot gently, to be sure he hadn’t missed any. The last thorn out, Tasmin at once felt the pain diminish. The group began to drift on. Buffum thought she might try the ox and had Jim Bridger lift her up, but just as she mounted, the ox slung its head to rid itself of flies; a string of slobber struck Buffum in the face.

  “I do despise ox spit,” Buffum said, immediately jumping back down.

  Pomp started to set Tasmin’s foot back on the ground, but Tasmin kicked at him with it—just a little teasing kick to make him look at her! Notice her! She wanted just to sit with him for a bit, now that the others had gone.

  Pomp didn’t immediately realize what Tasmin was about. He set the foot down anyway, but before he could stand up, Tasmin kicked at him with the other foot.

  “Remember that I’m a biped,” she told him. “Don’t neglect the other foot.”

  Pomp looked up then, right into Tasmin’s eyes, something he rarely did. In a place where every day’s march carried the threat of death, he didn’t feel that he should complicate matters by letting this powerful young woman, Jim Snow’s wife, fix her feelings on him. But he only had to look into her eyes for a moment to realize that her feelings were already firmly fixed.

  “You’re such an elusive gentleman, Monsieur Charbonneau,” Tasmin said. “I’ve not been ignored so adroitly in quite a long time.”

  Pomp didn’t turn his eyes away, and he still held her other foot.

  “There’s no thorn in this foot,” he said, giving the foot a light squeeze.

  “No, but there’s a thorn in my heart,” Tasmin told him quietly. “It aches rather as my heel ached before you operated. You could soothe it as easily as you soothed my foot, if you only would.”

  In the distance she saw Father Geoffrin walking with Clam de Paty—the priest was looking directly at her, an interference that infuriated her.

  “There’s that detestable Jesuit,” she said angrily. ‘At last I manage to obtain a brief interview with you, and wouldn’t you know he’d be looking. I’d like to slap him, and maybe I will.”

  The fact that Father Geoffrin was watching put Pomp more at ease, a shift that Tasmin immediately noticed.

  “You don’t care at all, drat you!” she said. “You are such a frustrating man, Pomp. I fell in love with you and I allowed you to know it—a very forward thing. I’m still in love with you. I thought I detected some interest—you returned my kisses, at least.”

  “I liked those kisses,” Pomp admitted. He still held her foot, but felt rather silly. Kit was watching them too, no doubt jealously. The company was inching on, but Pomp and Tasmin had not moved.

  “You’re such a rational fellow, Pomp,” Tasmin said, with a cutting smile. “I suppose my little importunings must seem silly to you. The geography hardly encourages a grand passion. In the days when we had to drink that horse slop I ceased to care whether you loved me at all, but I’ve had a cool drink or two and now the feeling’s back. I thought love was supposed to fatten on obstacles such as these—isn’t that what Mr. Shakespeare says?”

  At that Pomp smiled, amused despite himself by Tasmin’s steely persistence, her wit, her evident determination to do whatever it took to gain his affection— which, of course, she already had. But not many women would call up Shakespeare when they were on a burning plain, with the Arapahos likely to fall on them at any moment.

  “I’ve been gone from Shakespeare for a while,” Pomp admitted. “There’s probably something like that in the sonnets, though.”

  When Tasmin saw his shy, astonished smile she knew her gamble had not been wholly in vain. Perhaps he did want her still. He was just such a modest young man.

  She took back the foot she had thrust into his hand.

  “I’m hardly asking you for a wedding cake, Pomp,” she remarked. ‘After all, I’m married, and we have these numerous perils to surmount. But surely a kiss now and then wouldn’t be beyond you—or a confiding word, once in a while. I hate being always rebuffed, and why shouldn’t I hate it? It’s damned vexing to be able to command the attention of everyone except the one person whose attention I crave.”

  Together they walked back toward the company, Tasmin limping a little, her foot still sore. Pomp took her arm, a gesture of concern that pleased her mightily.

  “I’m worried about Pa,” he said, in an effort to explain what Tasmin took to be his inattention. “He’s sick. He’s traveled many a mile. I fear Pa’s playing out.”

  Ahead—far ahead—Tasmin could just see a green smudge on the horizon—it must be the spring Pomp had mentioned. Trees meant water, and water might mean a bath—clean clothes, even. Her thoughts began to fly ahead, and yet she had to admit that Pomp’s explanation was just. Toussaint Charbonneau did look as if he might be playing out. Pomp, the good son, would naturally be worried.

  “Perhaps we can rest for a few days, once we get to the spring,” Tasmin suggested. “Your father might improve.”

  Pomp didn’t answer. He didn’t look convinced. But he still held Tasmin’s arm—held it firmly, as she limped on, with a defiant look, toward the journalist and the priest.

  37

  He felt too tired, too sad . . .

  “THIS wilderness has destroy me,” Clam de Paty mumbled. He felt too tired, too sad even to make his English precise. What he had mumbled was the truth: the American wilderness had destroyed him. He did not want to walk across it—not even one more mile. He did not want to write about its mountain men, its savages, its grizzly bears, its mountains. He had come to America a famous man, a veteran of the Grande Armée, a man who had won medals; was he not the most famous journalist in the most civilized country in the world? Yet now, thanks to his bosses—always greedy for new information—he was destroyed, broken, finished, ended, afflicted with a numb despair. True, they had found a good spring, had drunk their fill, had bathed many times, had rested. And yet, all around them, the wilderness still yawned. Santa Fe was still hundreds of miles away. The nice young Monsieur Charbonneau could talk to him all he wanted about how easy the rest of the trip would be compared to what had already been endured, but young Monsieur Charbonneau was missing one big point: Clam de Paty no longer cared. The wilderness had finished him. All day and all night, as he shook and trembled, he thought of nothing but Paris, its cobblestones, its wines, its actresses.

  “Of course, it’s a dratted nuisance to have no claret,” Lord Berrybender allowed. “But aren’t you rather overdoing this, monsieur? This wilderness is amenable enough, as wildernesses go. I shot three buffalo yesterday—plenty of meat now for our march. Doubt we’ll have to eat horse meat again.”

  Clam de Paty didn’t respond. Why should he? The old Englishman was a fool. A Frenchman would have understood at once that when a man is finished, he is finished. There was no more to be said.

  “How vexing,” Mary Berrybender remarked. “That Frenchman declares that he will go no further. And now Monsieur Toussaint Charbonneau proposes to leave us and take Coal and Rabbit, a decision Pomp opposes.”

  There had been a sharp frost during the night—the prairie sparkled as if sown with diamonds, and edges of the green pool had a little rind of ice. Monty had cut his foot on a shard of glass, residue from the family that had been massacred near the spring. Monty, howling, raced off, leaving bloody footprints on the frosty grass. Tasmin was forced to run and catch him, and now had the task of binding up his cut.

  “Damn it, why did this child have to cut his toe half off?” Tasmin remarked. She was not very cheered by the thought that she soon would have two children to keep up with. Clam de Paty’s despair didn’t interest her—if he continued to balk, then he should be abandoned
— but Toussaint Charbonneau’s departure was a matter for considerable concern. Old Sharbo and his cheerful wife, Coal, had been with them all the way from Saint Louis. The three little boys, Monty, Talley and Rabbit, had never been separated. And then there was Pomp, whose deep attachment to his father they all respected. Now the old man proposed to quit the company and take his wife and child back to the Missouri River, along whose banks he had lived much of his life.

  Little Onion helped Tasmin bandage Monty. Jim Snow and Jim Bridger were devising a harness for the ox, so it could pull the wagon—this meant that their two remaining horses could be used by the hunters.

  Tasmin expected long faces—she assumed everyone would be doing their best to dissuade the old interpreter from taking such a dangerous course of action; but instead she found the whole group chatting merrily. Tom Fitzpatrick and old Zeke Williams were advising Charbonneau about the likeliest routes. Old Charbonneau himself, who had been stumbling along, yellowish and tired, seemed suddenly to have a spring in his step—he looked on the whole rather jaunty.

  “Why, Monsieur Charbonneau, I’m so surprised that you’re leaving us,” Tasmin said. “Why this sudden urge to travel alone?”

  Toussaint Charbonneau tipped his filthy cap to her.

  “It’s just that I’m a river man, Lady Tasmin,” he said. “I reckon I’ve been up and down our good old Missouri more than thirty times and I’m longing to make another trip or two before I’m done. Our Pomp was born right on that river, you know—I’ve just got a yen to see it again. It’s a fine, fair river, if sometimes a little muddy.”

  Tasmin gave Coal a long hug—she was very fond of Coal, who had made Monty the rabbit-fur cap that had seen him snugly through a bitter winter. What Coal thought about the sudden departure, there was no guessing. Her look was stoical. Where her husband went, she too must go. Monty and Talley stood watching, solemn as judges, as Rabbit was put in his pouch. Pomp and his father held a long embrace, and then the Charbonneau family walked off east across the frosty plain, equipped with not much more than a rifle and a blanket. The mountain men gave a cheer and got back to their harnessing and packing. The great sunny distances soon swallowed up the little family.